The Castle of Llyr: Chapters 16–20

Despite her travel-stained garments and disheveled hair, she appeared unharmed.

On her lips now was a smile of mockery and malice.

Magg, with the strength of desperation, sprang at the bard’s throat and grappled with him.

Before Taran could come to Fflewddur’s aid, a warrior with an axe beset him and, despite his stout defense, Taran found himself driven back toward a corner of the Hall.

Amid the confusion of the fray, he saw Gwydion and Rhun struggling against other warriors.

Gwydion’s eyes went to the end of the Hall where scarlet draperies had been flung back from an alcove.

Gurgi’s heartrending wail filled the Great Hall.

“And their fate?” Achren said to her. “What shall be the fate of those who seek to despoil the inheritance of a Princess?”

“I have no need to bargain,” Achren answered. She made a curt gesture to Eilonwy.

“Which shall it be?” mused Achren. “The ill-favored creature who dared call himself your servant?”

His encounter with Fflewddur had left the Chief Steward much the worse for wear. His handsome garments showed rips and rents, his lank hair fell damply over his forehead, his chain of office was bent and battered.

“King Magg the Maggot!” the bard flung back at him. “Does Achren promise you a kingdom? A scullery would be more than you deserve!”

The black-robed Queen smiled. “Achren knows how to reward those who serve her, as she knows how to punish those who defy her. Magg’s kingdom shall stand among the mightiest in the land. And Caer Colur shall rise more glorious than ever. Its Great Hall shall be the seat of power over all Prydain. The Lord of Annuvin himself shall kneel in homage to me.”

“Arawn of Annuvin shall cower and beg for mercy. But his throne shall be toppled. It was I, Achren, who showed him the secret ways to power. He betrayed me and now he shall suffer my vengeance. It was I who ruled Prydain before him and none dared question my dominion. Thus shall it be once more. Thus shall it be evermore.”

“The lore tells of your ancient rule,” Gwydion said sharply, “and how you sought to keep hearts and minds in thrall to you. You tormented those who would not worship you; and for those who bowed to you, life was little better than a slow death. I know, too, of the blood sacrifices you demanded and your joy at the cries of your victims. No, Achren, it shall not come again. Think you this girl shall lead you to it?”

Before Rhun’s outburst, while Gwydion had been speaking, Taran had sensed a shadow of fear over Achren. It had passed now and her lips parted in a subtle smile.

"...Accept my thanks, Lord Gwydion,” Achren went on. “You spare me the labor of a tedious search. Spare yourself much pain by putting them in my hands. Now!” she commanded harshly.

Rhun blinked and swallowed hard, but he faced Achren stoutly.

“Give the harper to me, Lady Achren,” Magg said eagerly, while Fflewddur bristled and stared defiantly at him.

“Give the harper to me, Lady Achren,” Magg said eagerly, while Fflewddur bristled and stared defiantly at him.

Gwydion’s hand went to the hilt of the black sword. “Harm none of my companions,” he cried.

“What cares an Assistant Pig-Keeper whether I or another hold sway over Prydain? Lord Gwydion himself cannot gain for you what you hold dearest; indeed, he can bring about only her death. But I can give you her life. Yes, a gift only I can bestow. And more, much more,” Achren whispered.

Magg had returned to the Great Hall. His sallow face twitched with excitement as he triumphantly bore aloft the Golden Pelydryn.

Achren snatched the objects from him. The golden sphere was dull as lead, its beauty gone. She held it avidly; her eyes glittered; and her smile showed the white tips of her sharp teeth.

Achren spun and faced him scornfully. “Silence! A kingdom, groveling fool? Be grateful if you are allowed to keep your life.”

Throughout the Great Hall rose a faint, confused whispering, as though the wind had gained tongue, urging, cajoling, commanding.

Even as the book of spells consumed itself in its own flames, the blaze did not dwindle but instead rose ever higher, roaring and crackling, no longer crimson but blindingly white.

The scarlet curtains of the alcove blew outward, seized in the writhing column of fire.

Magg had vanished. Gurgi and Prince Rhun hastened to aid Taran. Within moments Fflewddur returned. His face was ashen.

Gwydion’s voice rang above the tumult. “Save yourselves! Caer Colur is destroyed! Jump clear of the walls or they will crush you!”

The bard, like Rhun, was soaked and bedraggled, and strands of dripping seaweed hung from his yellow hair.

Achren clung to the rocks to bear herself up. Her face, half-hooded, was drawn and haggard and her lips were pale.

"...I suppose,” she said softly to Taran, “I felt a little the way you did long ago in the Marshes of Morva, when you had to decide to give up Adaon’s magic brooch.

His feathers bedraggled and pointing every which way, Kaw fluttered above Eilonwy. Despite his disreputable appearance, he squawked and snapped his beak with enormous self-satisfaction.

Achren, finally consenting to voyage to Caer Dallben, walked slowly, withdrawn into her own thoughts, while Llyan frisked beside the bard, and Kaw sported overhead.